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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159130">Sincere and Dignified</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula'>ghostnebula (gghostnebula)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad Decisions, Bill is a supportive pseudo brother to Eddie, But only a tiny bit, Drinking, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fluff, Gambling, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Tenderness, or are they?, they're in LOVE your honour, you know what's up lol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:48:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie's twenty-first birthday + The entire Losers' Club + Las Vegas + Being in love with your best friend = Well, exactly what you'd expect.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sincere and Dignified</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This started as a Tumblr post that was going to be in point form, and then things spiraled, and here we are. </p><p>It's written strangely because it was, again, originally supposed to be a short Tumblr post. I forgot I cannot write "short" posts. </p><p>Brevity may be the soul of wit, but I am one verbose dipshit.</p><p>Shoutout to <a href="https://thegood-side.tumblr.com/">Amanda</a> for being a bro and proofreading this mess for me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>     Eddie’s birthday is in November. Which makes him the youngest member of the Losers’ Club. Which makes him the last Loser to turn twenty-one. </p><p>     Which means they go all-out to celebrate, since it’s the first time they can all (legally) celebrate together. And because they’ve kind of forgone “proper” twenty-first birthday festivities for everyone else, so no one would ever feel left out. Finally, no one <em> needs </em> to be left out of it. </p><p>     They’ve all been living together for over three years now, they’re all getting close to graduating from college, and they <em> all </em> saved up for this one, because this is pretty much it. The last big, fun, tangible milestone in their young lives. The last “new” thing they’re earning the right to do (legally) after driving and voting. You bet your ass they go <em> ham </em> on Eddie’s birthday plans.</p><p>     That’s how they end up in Vegas. Several long weeks of planning, lots of money they scraped together into jars over the last few years ready to be spent, checking and double-checking every class syllabus to make sure no one misses anything important on Friday (they <em>have</em> to be at their hotel in time for check-in or, between Stan and Eddie, someone <em>will</em> pitch a fit). Then they’re all piling into Ben’s station wagon with as little luggage as they could manage to bring for a weekend trip (the station wagon is “spacious”; it is <em>not</em> a fucking miracle vehicle). </p><p>     Roughly ten hours later (five hours for driving, two for check-in plus cramming all their crap into the motel room and then attempting to organize it, one for figuring out and agreeing on where to even <em> start </em> with the partying, two more for getting ready) Eddie Kaspbrak has his first legal drink as a proper twenty-one year old, on this night of November third, and there’s no aftertaste of guilt like usual. He’s got Richie pushing shots into his hands, Mike making sure he’s eating some snacks once in a while so he doesn’t get too trashed too fast, Bev directing bartenders to make the most <em> delicious </em> fucking drinks he thinks he’ll ever taste in his <em> life </em> (Porn Stars, or something else inappropriate like that).</p><p>     He has Bill, the oldest, practically under oath to stay sober (at least for tonight) so there’s one semi-coherent Loser present to keep the rest of them safe and sane until he can drag them all back to the motel. </p><p>     He has a wad of cash in his pocket, a chunk of his savings from the past year, ready to blow on booze and gambling and whatever the fuck he <em> wants, </em> because it’s his <em> birthday, </em> so he’s <em> allowed </em> to do whatever the fuck he wants.</p><p>     It’s <em> safe, </em> and more importantly, it’s legal, and <em> most </em> importantly, it’s <em> Vegas. </em> He never thought he’d ever have the balls to set foot in a place like this -- the kind of place his mother would demonize when he was a kid. Drinking, before he left Derry and his mom and the vice grip she had on his life, was completely out of the question, let alone getting <em> hammered </em> in a casino in <em> Sin City, </em> of all fucking places, under the care of the “evil little shits” he calls his best friends. </p><p>     He <em> more </em> than lets loose. He lets twenty-one years of virtually non-stop anxiety unwind in one night.</p><p>     When he wakes up the next morning, hung over for the first time in his life, it’s almost worth it. Bill’s the only motherfucker awake already, being that he’s the only one who doesn’t have several bottles of vodka et al. to sleep off, and he’s draped across the ratty arm chair in their ratty motel room, channel-surfing with the television volume as low as it can get. The light burns Eddie’s eyes, still, when he lifts his head and -- instead of turning, his head just kind of lolls on his shoulders until he can look at Bill properly. </p><p>     He wants to ask him to end his suffering, which he can only assume he has yet to see the worst of. Suddenly he understands why aspirin exists. He wants Bill to pump him full of painkillers until he stops feeling like he’s made of electrified cotton. Instead, he says, articulately, “Guh.”</p><p>     Bill turns his attention from<em> Scooby-Doo</em> to where Eddie is half-lying, trapped under the weight of Richie’s arm and half his chest. Richie is snoring away, glasses askew on his face, a cooling puddle of drool soaking Eddie’s shoulder. It’s gross, but he can’t really complain at this point. He’s accustomed to it by now.</p><p>     “Ah, he lives.”</p><p><em>      “Ugh,” </em> says Eddie.</p><p>     “I bet,” says Bill. “So, do you want a recap of the events of last night, or did you keep your promise and remember every life-altering decision you chose to make?”</p><p>     Bill’s voice, which he’s hardly putting much effort into keeping down -- owing to the fact that all his effort is being channeled into <em> trying not to laugh, </em> and Eddie can’t even begin to fathom what’s so funny -- is causing the other Losers to stir. His splitting headache doesn’t <em> want </em> him to try to figure out what’s funny. He must have fried a metric shitload of braincells with all those Porn Stars last night, or whatever the fuck sugary booze Bev was pouring down his throat before everything went hazy. </p><p>     “Life-altering?” he repeats after a few moments, as Richie’s arm finally stops crushing him. It’s the only word that really stands out to him in the jumbled mess of hangover discomfort his brain is fighting, and it should cause him anxiety but he’s more worried, right now, about drinking some water. Richie sits up beside him, yawning.</p><p>     Bill hums. He looks <em> terribly </em> pleased with himself, which can be good or bad depending which side of the story you’re on, and Eddie’s got this sneaking suspicion he’s on the <em> wrong </em> side, here. “Yeah, that life-altering thing I tried to talk you two dipshits out of for longer than the actual ceremony took?”</p><p>     “Ceremony?” Eddie asks, trying to feel back through his poor, poor brain to remember anything after slot machines and vibrant chatter and deceptively sweet beverages being passed to him. Richie’s head drops onto his shoulder as his arms wrap around Eddie’s waist. “Guh,” he says into the fabric of Eddie’s rumpled shirt. Habitually, Eddie reaches up to pat him consolingly on the head. Richie’s not one for mornings.</p><p>     “Why don’t you take a look at your ring finger, birthday boy?” Bill says, but Eddie’s already frozen, because there was a flash when he raised his hand and he’s not entirely sure he’s believing what he’s seeing, and where the fuck did he even get the ring anyway, let alone a ring as nice as this? “Or, sorry, I should say: Mr. Tozier?”</p><p>     Eddie... mostly ignores him, in favour of smacking Richie a few times on the skull to get his attention, hangovers be damned. “Richie,” he hisses, heart going a mile a minute. “The fuck did I do?”</p><p>     Richie grumbles some kind of complaint, lifting his head from its safe space on Eddie’s shoulder, and when he follows Eddie’s gaze he lets out a kind of... laugh? More of a squawk, really. His left arm jerks off of Eddie’s waist lightning-quick, and then he’s holding up his own hand beside Eddie’s to show off their matching rings. “Oh my god,” he says, <em> quiet </em> (for Richie). A little bit of tension melts out of him. Then, “I think you mean, ‘the fuck did <em> we </em> do?’”</p><p>     “Oh my <em> god,” </em> Eddie squeaks, and Bill loses his battle and dissolves into peals of laughter, remote slipping out of his hands and landing somewhere on the floor. <em> “Bill, </em> you were supposed to be <em> babysitting.” </em></p><p>     It takes a while, but Bill manages to regain his composure long enough to say, “Well <em> forgive </em> me, but you were a man on a mission. I distinctly remember a lot of, ‘we’re practically dating anyway’ and ‘no time like the present’ and ‘Bill, if you don’t step the fuck off I’m gonna shove this ring so far up your nostril you’ll be sneezing gold until you’re ninety.’ What was I gonna do about it?”</p><p>     “Oh my god,” Eddie says again, red-faced, mortified, heart still <em> going-going-going. </em> They <em> aren’t </em> dating, though, is the problem, and <em> yeah, </em> he’s always had this stupid little idea in his stupid little head that they might as well be, but he’s never <em> asked, </em> because he wasn’t sure if he should. Wasn’t sure if it was <em> safe. </em> Wasn’t sure if Richie wanted something <em> proper </em> or to just stay very, <em> very </em> close friends until the grave. They <em> weren’t </em> dating, and now they’re <em> married, </em> and <em> ohJesusMaryandJoseph </em> why did he let himself get so drunk last night? </p><p>     He doesn’t expect Richie to be <em> resentful </em> or anything, but he’s also an anxious mess by default, and post-drunken-haze Eddie is a different, apparently less chill person than mid-drunken-haze Eddie, because he doesn’t remember having <em> this </em> freakout last night. </p><p>     He doesn’t think that Richie will be pissed about it, necessarily, but he’s terrified that Richie’s going to want to... undo this, somehow. </p><p>     He expects regret.</p><p>     He <em> doesn’t </em> expect Richie to slide his hand against Eddie’s so that their rings <em> clack </em> together, letting out a soft little, “Aw,” as he does so, or to press his scratchy, stubbly face against Eddie’s cheek to plant a kiss there, or to say, just as quiet and soft as <em> ever, </em> “We’re <em> married, </em> Eds.”</p><p>     “Is that okay?” Eddie asks, heart in his throat, wondering if he somehow forced Richie into this when he wasn’t in full control of his faculties.</p><p>     “More than okay,” Richie says. “Is it okay with <em> you?” </em></p><p>     Eddie nods dumbly, staring at their rings again, wondering what the fuck possessed them to make such a rash, life-altering decision like this, yet understanding all too well that his love for Richie is too big to contain and it has to spill out in little doses like <em> this, </em> or it’ll probably kill him, or make him go crazy. “Yeah,” he says finally, nodding perhaps too fast. “Yeah, Richie, it’s more than okay.”</p><p>     He turns in Richie’s arms to kiss him properly, apparently not for the first time, and just the action brings a couple snippets of last night’s escapades abruptly to the surface. </p><p>*</p><p><em>      “$25 Weddings,” a pink neon sign outside a squat white chapel proclaims, “Sincere and Dignified.” And below that, in smaller, baby blue lettering: “Can provide: Flowers, Rings, Witnesses, Transportation, Attire...” The list goes on. It’s a wonder Eddie is coherent enough to read it, let alone comprehend it, but he’s rounding on Richie, whose arm he’s hanging off of, with the </em> best <em> fucking idea already leaping from his lips. </em></p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p>     “Ffffffuck<em> Kaspbrak,” Eddie slurs as a reluctant Bill helps him slip on a suit jacket, fiddling with the purple clip-on bowtie Richie threw over the divider at him. “Fuck Kaspbrak, right, Rich?” </em></p><p>
  <em>      “Right,” Richie says enthusiastically -- probably too enthusiastically -- from the other side of the thin wooden divider that separates their “changing rooms.”  </em>
</p><p>     “Fuck<em> that name,” Eddie decides, nodding to himself. Bill takes the bowtie out of his hands with a sigh, and Eddie lifts his chin to let Bill fasten it to his shirt, grumbling all the while about how stupid they both are. “And </em> fuck <em> my mom.” </em></p><p><em>      “Fuck your mom!” Richie shouts. There’s a beat of relative quiet, then, “Not, like, </em> fuck <em> your mom, obviously. Fuck... </em> you, <em> maybe?” And then Bev’s raucous laughter echoes through the whole room. </em></p><p>
  <em>      Eddie can’t help laughing with her, even though Bill’s insisting he stay still “so you can at least look semi-presentable for your pictures, c’mon, Eddie, this is a big moment for me, too.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p><em>      “How are </em> you <em> the bridezilla, here, Bill?” </em></p><p><em>      “Could you </em> please <em> just work with me here, I swear to-- </em> agh!” <em> (More laughter from Bev. Stan saying something incomprehensible but </em> loud <em> and </em> boisterous. <em> Mike trying to shush them.) “I’m just trying to make sure this is actually </em> special <em> since you absolute buffoons refuse to just </em> wait <em> and do this </em> right.” <em> Is Bill fucking </em>crying?</p><p>*</p><p><em>      Richie’s tongue down Eddie’s throat, over and over and over: in the chapel; in a bar; in front of the bar; just before Bill drags them away from the casino they’re trying to sneak back into and instead towards the station wagon he’s doing his best to herd the Losers to; </em>in <em> the station wagon; in front of the motel.  </em></p><p><em>      Bill prying them apart with minimal assistance from a piss-drunk Ben who insists he’s “helping,” telling them </em> once again <em> that they are </em> not <em> allowed to consummate their fucking marriage in public, and </em> especially <em> not allowed to do it in the motel room all seven of them have to sleep in-- </em></p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p>     He hears Bev’s little “aww” behind him somewhere as he and Richie break apart, and Stan’s grief about how fucking early it is “for this shit.” Eddie can hear something like a smile in his voice, if not just plain old amusement.</p><p>     “We’re married, Rich,” Eddie repeats incredulously, and Bill is saying something about their marriage license in his wallet because neither of them can be trusted, but Eddie couldn’t care less about licenses or whatever, because Richie’s smiling down at him in that way that makes his heart feel too full. And he doesn’t mean to, but a choked noise bubbles up out of him, almost a sob, maybe a laugh. Tears burn in his eyes.</p><p>     But that’s alright, because Richie’s crying already, and he wraps himself bodily around Eddie, rolling them over so he’s squishing him into the mattress while he kisses all over his face and his throat until Eddie’s squealing with laughter despite his agonizing hangover. He almost feels too good to care about it now, but he’s definitely getting some water and painkillers into his system the second the weird high he’s feeling subsides.</p><p>     “Okay, okay,” says Stan, standing above them suddenly, swatting at Richie’s shoulders. “You’ve had your fun. Noisy assholes. We were too drunk for proper congratulations last night. Move over.”</p><p>     All the Losers squeeze themselves onto the queen bed, somehow, and water bottles and aspirin get passed around. At some point Bill gets up to start the coffeemaker and comes back with<em> (good fucking lord) </em> their “wedding photos” in a crisp manila envelope. They’re just as gaudy as he expected. Leave it to Richie to find the ugliest possible outfit for his literal wedding. </p><p>     Eddie gets hugs and shoulder-squeezes and cheek-kisses from everyone, over and over, and Bev actually cries for about ten full minutes while she holds him, then at least ten more while she holds Richie, and then <em> Ben </em> cries, and... well, they all end up crying all over each other, but it’s awash with joy. <em> “We’re happy for you,” </em> they keep saying, and <em> Eddie’s </em> happy for them, too. He didn’t expect to accidentally do things <em> this </em> way, but he has to be glad it happened.</p><p>     “God,” he says a while later, shaking his head as he sips sugary coffee from the mug he and Richie are sharing (this room is meant for four people, max, not seven, and is equipped accordingly). He’s still examining a picture of Richie attempting to give him a piggy-back ride out of the chapel. Bill is visible in the background, eyes red and puffy, a wad of tissues clenched in his hand while Mike tries to console him. Eddie has been making fun of him for about half an hour now. “My mom would <em> flip </em> if I told her about this.” But the thought doesn’t scare him. He doesn’t get scared of her anymore. Not like he used to. Not when he’s so far away and he feels so safe with these six idiots who bring so much joy to his life.</p><p>     Richie’s thumb rubs over the skin of his lower back where his hand has crept up Eddie’s shirt. “Good thing you don’t have to,” he says, and that familiar mantra of <em> “You never have to see her again,” </em> bleeds through, plain as ever. </p><p>     Eddie hums. Passes the coffee back to him. “I know. But... I kinda want to. Just to watch her head explode,” he says with a shrug and a grin, earning a chorus of easy laughter from his friends. He stares at the ring on Richie’s finger as Richie throws back the rest of their coffee, something warm and familiar blooming brighter in his chest.</p><hr/><p> </p>
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